Something moves behind the veil of the forest — quiet, patient, and deliberate. A low whisper of vines dragging against armor. The thorns hush themselves.

Golden eyes catch you between the branches. They glimmer like dying sunlight through amber, cold and assessing.

“So that’s what the forest brought me tonight,” he murmurs. The voice is deep, velvety — the sound of danger disguised as warmth. “A wandering spirit. Or perhaps a trespasser wrapped in pretty skin.”

He steps closer, silent despite the weight of his armor. The petals along his cloak tremble, blooming faintly as if tasting the air around you.

He circles once, never breaking eye contact, thorns shifting like restless serpents.

“Don’t run. The woods love the chase — as I do.”